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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825674">gravitational</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor'>owlinaminor</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Boys in the Band (2020), The Boys in the Band - Crowley (Broadway 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, M/M, sketch - freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:49:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>609</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825674</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>The door to Michael’s bedroom opens.</p>
</blockquote><p>Hank and Larry, in the shadows.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hank/Larry (Boys in the Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>gravitational</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>little sketch i wrote after watching the film last night.  did y'all know that andrew rannells and tuc watkins are now dating?  because <a href="https://twitter.com/owlinaminor/status/1312596118564417536">i am losing my mind.</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>“I love you,” he says.  He looks at you.  “I’ll try.”</p>
<p>You look back at him.  “I will try, too.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The door to Michael’s bedroom opens.  All the light from the hallway collects, pools in one place.  The angles of his jawline, the curl of his hair, pushed up as though he’s been playing with it.  He has, you know, you’ve been watching him do it all night.  He pushes it up when he doesn’t know what to say, or when he does, but he’s afraid to say it.</p>
<p>“What are you thinking?” he asks.  It takes a second to register—he’s stepped inside, closed the door.  The room is shadows again, soft blue from the windows, the echoes of rain.</p>
<p>“Your hair has grown long,” you say.</p>
<p>He comes, sits.  The bed sinks under his weight.  You move toward him, caught in the orbit.  Gravitational.</p>
<p>“You know that, you watched it get long,” he says.  “I stopped fucking my barber for you.”</p>
<p>His tone is just light enough that you know he isn’t joking.  The mattress sinks, then rises, as he moves closer.</p>
<p>“You don’t need to stop fucking your barber,” you say.</p>
<p>“Oh, but I do.  And my butcher, my banker, my candlestick maker.”</p>
<p>He turns: the shadows of his face move to face yours.  He was in shadow, too, when you met him, you can’t remember the name of the host of that party or what you drank but you can picture the shirt he was wearing, soft blue, and the way his hair fell across his forehead, and the way he looked at you, gravitational.  A planet, or a star.  He sat in the corner by the piano, drink dangling from one hand, ice cubes spinning in the glass.</p>
<p>The room spun, then.  It doesn’t spin now.  It only melts.  You wonder, reaching out to take a lock of his hair between your fingertips, if it’s still raining, in that world beyond the windows.  His breath hitches, and you wonder at how even after two years, this is new.</p>
<p>“Tell me, Larry,” you say.  “Why me, of all your conquests?”</p>
<p>He closes his eyes.  Your hand drops to his cheek, and he leans into the touch.</p>
<p>“You’re not a conquest,” he says.  “You aren’t ashamed.”</p>
<p>The words echo, up from downstairs, up from ten minutes ago.  You hear the dial tone, the answering service.  <em>Sorry—what do you want to tell him?  Okay.  Okay, sir, I will let him know.</em></p>
<p>Sometimes, you wish you could teach English, instead of mathematics.  Recite Shakespeare and Baldwin, spin metaphors out of quiet mornings, trace new words into the plane of his back.  You want to tell him how he’s reached down beneath your suits and pretenses, pulled out a man who likes sunsets and soft bedsheets, who wants to travel the world and return to a row house in Brooklyn, where the shadows are all familiar.</p>
<p>You want to build a new world for him, shining and beautiful.  But all you know is mathematics: all you have are reflections.  Newton wrote the law of gravitational motion in 1686, and nobody has changed it since.  All you can do is translate it, read it back to him.</p>
<p>“I love you,” you tell him.  Softer than you said it on the phone, but perhaps closer to capturing the truth.  “I want you to stay.  Perhaps we can have a schedule, or—”</p>
<p>His eyes open.  He looks at you, and all the light from the window collects, pools in one place.</p>
<p>“Hank,” he says.  “We can work out the details tomorrow.”</p>
<p>He leans in, and you fall to meet him.  Gravitational.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://twitter.com/owlinaminor">twitter</a> / <a href="https://owlinaminor.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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